The breath stealing peaks
Three friends and an existential crisis
Snow covered caps and march air
I thought the farther I ran
My problems just might not catch me
Till a voice whispered so, delicately
To the rest of my body
“What the **** are we?”

I'm no happy go lucky
I think too much.
I look up stuck,
searching in the constellations​
for answers about luck.
It doesn't inspire me.
Hence there is a reason
for my 'meant to be',
because you are
no longer a dream.

She tried to give
the door a knock,
She took a chance
to see if it would unlock.
Turns out,
she didn't​ have the key
to set him free.

Writing is
the frozen music
of an ellipsis -
a silent song
of a lonesome poet
who sings in the dark
between howling winds
crossing swords
in the white shades
of unseen things -

a winter on the pole
on whose  obverse side
there's Rio,
and mirth,
and dancing,
and the sun's critique
of hegemony.

© LazharBouazzi